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No one tells you

No one tells you that it’s a possibility. No one tells you that it will make an impact on your life. No one tells you that it’s an excruciating pain. No one tells you that you will feel like your heart has been ripped out. No one tells you that you’ll feel empty. No one tells you that you’ll resent your spouse. No one tells you that it will eat you alive. No one tells you that you’ll spend nights blaming yourself. No one tells you that your eyes will produce never ending tears. No one tells you that the days will go slow. No one tells you that you’ll cry whenever and wherever. No one tells you that you’ll lose your faith. No one tells you that your mind will be consumed. No one tells you that seeing one child can ruin your day. No one tells you that eventually everyone will go on with their life except you. No one tells you that it will hit you when you least expect it. No one tells you that you will lose your motivation. No one tells you how hard it is to try again. No one tells you that you’ll become jealous of those who have what you don’t. No one tells you that it’s okay to cry. No one tells you to take your time. No one tells you that it’s okay to not want to get out of bed some days. No one tells you how long you’ll be stuck. No one tells you that you will never be the same. No one tells you how traumatizing it is. No one tells you that in the back of your mind, you’ll ask ‘why?’ and ‘what if?’. No one tells you that it’s a long journey to recovery.

No one tells you that losing a child will be so hard.

They just don’t.

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You’re a strong mummy, your angel is proud.💖😇👣💙💟

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She’s in the sun, the wind, the rain, She’s in the air you breathe, in every breath you take. She sings a song of hope and cheer, There’s no more pain, there’s no more fear You’ll see her in the clouds above and hear her whisper words of love. You’ll be together before long, Until then listen for her song.

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Heaven Needed You More

No words can describe the heartache, no words of comfort anyone can say. I've never felt a pain like this before a piece of my heart died with you. But I guess Heaven needed you more, but I can't understand exactly what for, is this a trial of my faith? a lesson to be learned? why did my baby come to earth then so quickly return? I gotta get up off the floor and trust that Heaven needed you more. I came home to an empty nursery, your cries and laughter won't fill this room, this was not the way I planned it. oh Lord I'm needing comfort from you. My arms are empty but you'll remain in my heart, and just remember Mommy loves you and we're not really far apart. Yes Heaven needed you more, and I'm starting to understand exactly what for, it's been a trial of my faith, so many lessons have been learned, yes my baby came to earth and then so quickly returned, but I'm up off the floor I know that Heaven needed you more. -Mikalene Ipson

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Death does not unmake a mother. If anything, we need to be more resourceful in our mothering. There are no parenting books, no theories on how to parent a dead child. But we still parent. We just make it all up, each day, as we go along, hurting and healing. Parenting is just tailoring maternal love to fit each child. We do that with our dead babies too. We wonder which flower would honor their lives, we relish speaking their names. We collect drawings of butterflies, quotes that touch our hearts, we write their names on the sand and in the snow. We remember. We remember all the time. We remember the love. Also, the pain. That odd quality we have about us… it’s because we have something special. We have extra love in our hearts. Love that can’t translate into choosing the safest rear-facing car seat, so it becomes love that wonders and meanders, most times with nowhere to go. So this love with no port, it flutters about. Sometimes it bursts out through tears, stinging sobs. Other times it makes for a sideways smile when we remember our child. And it always makes us seem just a teeny bit off. Because we are. A little person is missing from our arms. But all the love for them is here, inside us, bubbling away in everything we do.

stillstandingmag.com (via lovingneva)

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Death does not unmake a mother. If anything, we need to be more resourceful in our mothering. There are no parenting books, no theories on how to parent a dead child. But we still parent. We just make it all up, each day, as we go along, hurting and healing. Parenting is just tailoring maternal love to fit each child. We do that with our dead babies too. We wonder which flower would honor their lives, we relish speaking their names. We collect drawings of butterflies, quotes that touch our hearts, we write their names on the sand and in the snow. We remember. We remember all the time. We remember the love. Also, the pain. That odd quality we have about us… it’s because we have something special. We have extra love in our hearts. Love that can’t translate into choosing the safest rear-facing car seat, so it becomes love that wonders and meanders, most times with nowhere to go. So this love with no port, it flutters about. Sometimes it bursts out through tears, stinging sobs. Other times it makes for a sideways smile when we remember our child. And it always makes us seem just a teeny bit off. Because we are. A little person is missing from our arms. But all the love for them is here, inside us, bubbling away in everything we do.

stillstandingmag.com (via lovingneva)

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6 things to never say to a bereaved parent.

If you’re a bereaved parent, you can probably count on at least five hands the number of phrases you wish people would never, ever say to you.  If only there was a way for the world to learn how to speak compassionately to the brokenhearted.  What many people believe is a comforting statement, most often is not.  It usually feels more like a slap in the face or a swift punch in the gut.  Or like an uncontrollable need to vomit.  Or all three at once.  There seems to be a large gap between intention and what’s actually being communicated to those of us who are hurting.

1)  Time heals all wounds.  

Last I checked in my journey of trekking through the unimaginable, time hasn’t been working any overtime hours “healing” me.  And even if on some far away planet time does heal all wounds, it doesn’t make it helpful or comforting to hear when suffering in a ditch.  Alone.  Without much hope or a rope.

Time can help soften and change some of the sharpness of grief, but time alone doesn’t heal.  Time + focused intention can create a current in the direction of healing, but triple underline this:  Not all wounds heal, no matter how much time passes.  Not every wound turns into a scar.  Not all suffering ends in this lifetime.  Yes, in time it might scab over, but the slightest bump or scratch can make it start to bleed all over again.  Ask any bereaved parent– she’ll tell you– childloss is a wound that won’t ever completely heal.  No matter how much time or good intention, living a life without one (or more) of your children is a wound that forever bleeds.  No matter how many bandaids cover it over time.

2)  Let go. Move on.  

Anything that implies “get over it” will only add more unnecessary pain and hurt to a bereaved parents’ already gaping, oozing wounds.  What on earth is left for grieving parents to “let go of” when they’ve already lost the most precious treasure of their entire life to death?  We’ve already been forced to let go of someone who we would’ve given our own life to keep.  The only thing we have left to hold onto is our child’s memory and our abiding love for him or her.  And in doing so we courageously move forward, but never do we move on.  Moving on implies not taking our child with us throughout the rest of our lives.  When someone tells me I need to “move on/let go”, I tell them to move on from my life because I will proudly carry my son with meeverywhere I go.  If people have a problem with it, I have no problem letting them go.

3)  Have faith. 

Guess what?  Grief is not indicative of a lack of faith.  Ever.  So stop playing the faith card in an attempt to comfort someone who is suffering the worst human pain IMAGINABLE.  Having faith doesn’t make the fact that our child was robbed from us far before her time any easier or more bearable.  And it certainly doesn’t make it hurt any less, or make us feel more supported.  All it does is make it more probable that someone might feel like punching you in the face.  Furthermore, it shames a bereaved parent into thinking– Wow, if only I had more faith I wouldn’t hurt so much.  What am I doing wrong?– which I hope is the exact opposite message you’re intending to send.  Bereaved parents already feel isolated and alone in a world that predominately doesn’t understand childloss, and judging a grieving person’s level of faith by their depth of grief is not only ludicrous, it’s downright cruel.  Just don’t.

4)  Everything happens for a reason.  

No.  It doesn’t.  Sometimes the most horrible, cruel, unimaginably awful things happen to the best, most amazing, incredibly loving people on the planet.  And guess what?  Sometimes life just plain doesn’t make sense.  Sometimes things happen for no logical reason at all.  Saying “everything happens for a reason” is possibly fastest way to make a grieving parents’ blood boil.There is no reason good enough in all of heaven and earth that my son is buried underground while my feet continue to walk the earth.

I get that most people say this in an attempt to make sense of what is senseless, but instead let’s just state what is true:  It makes no *bleepin’* sense at all.  Children should never, ever die before their parents.  We all want the world to feel safe and predictable, and the word childloss is the quickest way to shake the foundation of those closest to us.  The thought of it is downright terrifying.  It pops even the most carefully crafted safety bubbles.

The truth is, witnessing the suffering of others might crack you open– possibly wide open.  Let it.  It’s supposed to.  It’s in the cracking that our hearts can offer empathy and true support instead of false platitudes, unwelcome advice or a severed relationship that offers no comfort to your hurting loved one.

5)  At Least.  

Any sentence starting with at least should never be spoken to a bereaved parent.  Never.  Ever.  ”At least she didn’t suffer…  At least he died young… (??!!!) …  At least you can have more children…  At least you got as long as you did with her…  At least it was quick and painless… At least you were blessed to have him at all.”  There is no at least in childloss.  None.  If you want to support your loved one in the best way possible, keep “at least” out of your conversations with her.

6)  Be thankful.  

Telling someone who has lost more than you can ever imagine to be thankful, is like slapping her in the face instead of hugging her.  Seriously.  Don’t do it.  You better believe any bereaved parent in the world could school you in the art of being thankful.  There’s no need to lecture us on the topic.  We’re thankful more than thankful has ever been thanked.  We’re grateful for each precious moment we were blessed to have our child, and this gratitude for every single blessed moment is what keeps our heart beating.  And if we do have other living children you better believe we’re thankful to the nth degree for the children we still have, but that doesn’t take away the lifelong pain of living without one (or more) of our precious children.

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The only thing more painful is losing that child.

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Think before you speak.

This is just a thought I had when I lost my son. I always wanted to say it, but haven’t. Until now.

“First, let me just start off by saying that I am sincerely and greatly appreciative of all the love and support my friends and family has shown me during this hard time. I am so thankful, more than you know. I know that I might insult many people with what I’m about to say, but I feel like I have to say it.

To all the people who are telling me that my baby’s death is “god’s plan” and that he is in a “better place”: Stop. Just stop. For goodness sake, STOP.

Now, I kow that your word are coming from a kind place, which is why I haven’t said anything up until now. But during this time, there is only so much I can take and only so many times before I can hear it without wanting to punch a wall.

The pain of losing a child is deep and raw. Unless you yourself have ever lost a child, you truly cannot imagine the depths of the grief involved. No parent should outlive their child, ever. It’s agony. And to tell such a grieving person that they should feel comforted because their child’s death is “god’s plan” and that “god had a reason” is to simply spit in the face of that grief and pain. I do not give a fuck if your god had “a plan” or “a reason” to take my child’s life. Oh, you believe there is a plan? Ok, let me pick my sobbing self off the ground and dance around in joy. That makes it ok.

Or not.

Even worse is the “he’s in a better place.” Even if I did believe in your god, I would still find this incredibly insulting. Stop and think for a minute about what you are saying. He is MY son. I am his MOTHER. And your god believes that I am such a bad mother, believes that in my arms is such a bad place for my son to be, that death is a better choice? Really? Fuck. that. shit.

Now, I know that for some people, it is hard to know what to say to someone who is filled with such grief. Sometimes those statements are the only things someone can think to say. In that case, I give you this advice: say nothing. Just be present. Silent. Sit with me, and let me cry…talk…whatever.

Out of all the people who supported me, I remember one the most. It was about one week after my son died, and she showed up on my doorstep, holding a bottle of wine and a box of tissues.I was surprised to see her there – I wouldn’t have called her a friend, just an aquantice. Her first words to me were “This fucking sucks.” We sat at my kitchen table and drank that wine all afternooon, and she simply listened while I raved about how unfair life is, how much it hurt, and yes, how much losing a child “fucking sucks.” She didn’t say much, just handed me tissue after tissue. Out of all the people who were there for me, she was the only one who gave me what I needed the most – to tear myself open and just let the raw pain and darkness inside spill out, without judgement, without intervention.

That night was the first night I was able to sleep since my son’s death.

So please, when speaking to someone in grief…stop and think.

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F&%K!!! WHY!!!

There is no f&%king normal.

Your child died!

Scream, cry, wail and be horrified at the

injustice of it all.

Feel it all. Feel everything.

Your life is broken and will

never be the same.

But NO!!  

Culturally this society doesn’t allow

you to feel.

“Move on; celebrate their life.”

Be proud of holding it together and 

not breaking down.

F&%K That!!!

Why does society make it this way? 

Why am I so different?

Why do I wail at the horribleness of

a death out of order?

I want to scream to the world.

STOP!!!!

Someone’s child has died.  

Their world has stopped.

The world is at a crawl now.

Say yes to the pain,

say yes to the grief,

say yes to the anger,

say yes to the unraveling.

Let it break you apart,

crack you open,

tear you down so you are unrecognizable.

It should, your child died!!

Wallow

Tell people when they say hurtful words.

Teach them.

Don’t numb out because when the love

comes you cannot be transformed or even feel it.

In order to feel the love,

you have to reach the darkest depths of your soul.